


Wouldn't Have It Any Other Way

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, ColdFlash heavily implied, Discussion of scars/past injuries, Enemies to Friends, Episode "Family of Rogues", Hurt/Comfort (even when the other person doesn't want it), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: “I told you,” Len whispers, but he suspects the intended glare is falling short because Barry isn’t giving an inch, “stop saving people who don’t want to be saved.”“I will,” Barry hasn’t moved, still kneeling in place, “when you stop wanting to be saved.”
Relationships: Barry Allen & Leonard Snart, Barry Allen/Leonard Snart, Leonard Snart & Lisa Snart (background)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 226





	Wouldn't Have It Any Other Way

“ _Jaw broken in two places…orbital bone cracked…_ ” the severity of the situation is not demonstrated in a delivery punctuated by the drawl of chewing gum around every third word, “ _…Split lip…might’ve lost a couple teeth…oh, and three ribs confirmed broken. Two others are at least cracked._ ”

“So, nothing serious.” Joe deadpans, conveying his disapproval over the phone in place of having someone to whom he might actually give a matching expression, “And he just…what, dropped out of the sky like that?”

“ _More like gift-wrapped._ ” He’s ninety-five percent sure the voice belongs to a rookie named Simon or Simmons or…whatever, “ _Found him in a holding cell ‘bout an hour ago. Doc just finished checking him out._ ”

“Not even a note?”

“ _Nada._ ” The voice on the other end of the line chuckles a bit – not appropriate in the slightest, says Joe’s better instinct, but there is mild vindication in hearing all the details of just how Lewis Snart got his comeuppance before being dropped back where he belongs, “ _Guess we got lucky, huh?_ ”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Joe trails off briefly in thought, then ends the call with short instructions on properly booking the grade-A bastard. Then he starts calling Barry’s cell.

He doesn’t answer.

***

“Hold still – I said, _hold still_.” 

“Hurry it up already.”

“Hold _still_ , or I will drag this out all night.”

The temptation to call the kid out for such a threat is strong – until Len sees a steely glare which looks a little too close like something he would muster up himself, and in the spirt of the sassy speedster holding a needle with calculated precision next to some very tender nerves in his hand, Len clenches his jaw and drops the argument.

“Thank you.” Eternally saint-like, Barry switches from mother-hen scolding to proper manners and dabs some more antiseptic on the rash of open injuries scattered across both hands, primarily along the knuckles – though the handsome tooth imprint on the outer ridge of his dominant hand is not to be ignored, “You should be going to a hospital for this.”

“You’re cute.” Len snips, in no mood to attempt the same cordiality. “And I suppose I tell them that I had trouble changing a tire and forgot my insurance card at home, right?”

“And I suppose I could suture your mouth shut while I’ve got the supplies out.” The sassiness is not entirely new, but it’s a welcome distraction from the cheery optimism which, on a good day, makes Len want to pop the kid upside the head and at present might make him ponder the qualifications for justifiable homicide. “I told you to knock it off after you broke his jaw.”

“A statement which, in itself, admits you stood there and let me beat him _before_ I broke his jaw.”

Barry dabs with unnecessary roughness at the middle knuckle of his left hand, split completely open in a gaping yawn of wet crimson, “I’m telling Cisco to change your name to Captain Obvious.”

Len replies with a singularly impolite choice of words. “Maybe later.” Barry answers dryly, then gets to work on sewing the damaged skin closed. His frown deepens, even as he works with surgical precision – the kind that has Len thinking the kid should’ve pursued a career in the morgue, not crime scene investigation. “You’re gonna scar from this.”

“Add it to my collection.” The comment came without express permission, but the kid gets kudos for not immediately starting with the questions.

Instead, his response is…well, not expected. Entirely.

“The only difference between yours and mine is that I heal.” Barry pauses to clean the newly sewn area before he moves on, “Memories leave lasting impressions, even if the skin doesn’t show it.”

“Somehow,” Len grits his teeth a little at the same sensation in a new area, “I doubt yours came from dear old dad.”

“Never said they did.” Barry retorts; kid is in a mood tonight, “This isn’t a competition, Len,” and when, exactly, was permission given for a two-way first-name basis? “It’s a fact: we’ve both had our asses handed to us over the years. Case closed.”

“Are you this way at work or am I your sounding board?” amusement tugs thinly at Len’s mouth, despite the blossoming discomfort across his hands. At least he has Barry’s expert assurance that – against all odds – nothing is broken. The kid even went so far as to point out he can use the gun as early as tomorrow afternoon. Cheeky little brat.

This time, Barry pauses before answering, “…guess you are.” He doesn’t apologize for it, which Len finds fetchingly honest.

Partially to test whatever waters they’re currently frolicking in and mostly to distract from the needle moving in and out of his skin, Len finally addresses the elephant in the room, “You should have let me kill him.”

The kid finally finishes and cleans up the mess in the time it takes Len to blink a couple times. At least now the safehouse living room doesn’t look like a small crime scene anymore. “No, I shouldn’t have.” Barry answers.

“He wasn’t worth saving,”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Definitely in a mood tonight, and Len would be more of a liar if he didn’t admit to being slightly impressed. Or, at least, intrigued. “So, let him die in prison.” He squares the streamline of hip and leg with both hands, which Len notices perhaps just half a minute too long. “I don’t care if you don’t think you’re worth the effort, Len. You kill him, Lewis wins, and Lisa loses her brother.”

Silence follows, then he registers Barry kneeling in front of him. The position, matched with Len’s reclining sprawl across the couch, is more intimate than it deserves to be. Or maybe this is simply a testament to how pathetically empty both their lives are. Or maybe Len is riding high on endorphins and Barry’s just a malleable idiot who gets too attached to the wrong people in life and willingly drops himself into these situations.

Maybe all of the above.

“I wasn’t going to let him ruin your life, or Lisa’s, anymore than he already has.” Barry speaks slowly, too intently, and Len’s damaged hands flex atop his thighs. The kid just needs to leave. The longer this drags out, the more purpose it gains. The longer he stays, the more blurred lines get in the sand until the lines are gone entirely and everything is screwed nine ways to Sunday.

“I told you,” Len whispers, but he suspects the intended glare is falling short because Barry isn’t giving an inch, “stop saving people who don’t want to be saved.”

“I will,” Barry hasn’t moved, still kneeling in place, “when you stop wanting to be saved.”

From the end table, Barry’s phone lights up with another missed call. “That makes lucky number thirteen.” Len says, even though neither of them are even looking at the phone.

“Speaking of which,” Barry says, a smile creeping across his mouth, “there’s a place on 13th Street that does take-out. I’m starving and I know you haven’t eaten.”

Len huffs and settles back deeper into the couch like he has nothing better to do than humor the kid. “Surprise me.” he says, even though the question was never technically asked.

Even so, the kid doesn’t disappoint with his culinary selection, and within an hour they’re both stretched across the couch, a beat-up coffee table set up between them like a private buffet while they watch some god-awful show that neither cares about but they’re both too lazy to reach for the remote and do something about it.

The next morning, Len catches an earful from Lisa about being stupid, being reckless, being the colossal jerk brother than she loves and will drop-kick into the next continent if he ever does something so stupid again, and then she starts laying in about the dark-haired cutie she found sleeping with him on the couch this morning and how dare he not fill her in on his relationship status after she tells him everything about her and Cisco.

His phone pings with a new text message about an hour into his sister’s winded lecture:

_Ice your hands for ten minutes each._  
_Keep the injured areas well moisturized._  
_Drink plenty of water._  
_Absolutely NO alcohol._

Two minutes later, another text comes in:

_I’ll be by late tonight to check on the sutures._  
_I will know if you haven’t abided by every single one of my instructions._

Forty-eight seconds later, one more:

_I’ll bring burgers. Extra fries._

The smirk on Len’s face catches Lisa’s attention only after he’s punched out his response:

_Don’t forget the salt._

**Author's Note:**

> Rewatched "Family of Rogues" from season 2 and this little ficlet wouldn't leave me alone. :)
> 
> Title comes from All Time Low "Time Bomb".
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.


End file.
